Don't Forget Me
by acrogirl5
Summary: Draco briefly considers telling Hermione his version of reality. Extremely long one-shot. Rated M for mature


Hey everyone! This is my second HP fan fiction, and I hope you enjoy it! R&R!

**Disclaimer**: All characters and cannon situations belong to JKR and if I were her, I'd be in lovely London, thinking about writing another Harry Potter book, not posting Dramione stories on the internet

See end of story for Author's Notes

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><p>You never took Divination. Couldn't bear to see what horrors fate had in store for you, or worse yet, the pleasures it would deny you.<p>

You're smart, always were, playing your cards close to your chest, picking your moves with grace and ease that others found bewitching, never knowing how deep your own sharp wit cuts you.

Every year you promised her hatred, offered it the only way it can be offered- with venom and malice and the deep-seated belief that it was all you could ever give her.

Today she walks past you with barely a sideways glance, preoccupied, with saving the world and her friends and everyone but you. And even as you ache for her, you seethe at her disregard. You make a snide pathetically hurtful comment, a barb with no real purpose, other than to remind her she's not everyone's golden girl.

She pauses, mid-stride, to look back at you with a blank look on her face. No hatred, no spite, just indifferent curiosity.

"Still hate me then, Malfoy?" she inquires politely, her long brown curls shifting over her eyes, deep chocolate brown- beautiful, but devoid of emotion, her hands sunk deep into the pockets of her robe.

You smile nastily, the crowd around you jeering as you reply in the affirmative, throwing in the odd insult about her parentage or her house, just to sink as low as you can.

Her eyes are completely focused on you as she listens, and you ignore the drumbeat in your chest as her eyebrow cocks and she inexplicably takes a few steps back towards you. You're not sure if it's her concentration on you and only you that has you stepping away from your pack, gaping as you break their protective swathe about you, watching as you take an equal amount of strides to put you face to face with the inquisitive Gryffindor.

"Really?" she asks offhandedly as you stand a mere inch away. "And what if I wasn't Harry's friend? What if, since you seem to hate my house so much, I'd been sorted into Slytherin?"

She expects you to snarl and spit and threaten her and then walk away. But not this time.

This time, you stand close enough to feel her breathe; you step closer still, towering over her. You step as close as you ban bear, sneering as if it pains you to step so close but then, in truth it does. You clench your fists and feel the smooth cobbles of your knuckles brush some warm part of her hand but cannot allow yourself to look and see where. "You'd still be a nasty little mudblood," you mutter, barely loud enough for her to hear. "Are you sure about that Malfoy? What would have **really** happened?" You're so close you can taste the tang of her breath as it spreads through the air and for one awful, yet inspiring moment, you consider telling her precisely where you think you'd be.

False memories curl around in your mind, occasionally throttling the other, real, memories that it encounters. It is a virus, this game you play, yet you find you cannot stop it, and you want to share it with her- the thoughts you drown yourself in, the need and longing dissipated by your firm belief in these precious, false events.

You want to tell her about the day that **you** remember, the day she stepped up to the sorting hat and did get sorted into Slytherin. She strolls nervously over to sit beside you, and you ask her about her life before Hogwarts, her parents. When she replies that they're muggles, you gape and try to push it to the back of your mind. In this version of reality, your father's prejudice was not so easily transferred to you.

You talk together for the rest of the feast, and walk together back to the Slytherin common room. She sneaks into your room in the middle of the night, crying because the girls are teasing her. You comfort her and talk through the rest of the night, her sitting on the end of your bed, telling her about wizarding facts and items of which she never dreamed possible. By the time the sun rises, the two of you are inseparable.

You hate her early on in the year when you help her in potions and she suddenly rises above you, becoming the top student of the class. You refuse to speak to her for three days, silently fearing your father's harsh judgment of both your friend and her ability to beat you, and it's only when she comes into your dorm one night, crawls up into your bed beside you and simply says "Please?" that you forgive her.

She insists on befriending the blood traitor Weasley and the savior Potter, whom she met on the train. You argue greatly over this until she finally understands your meaning and refuses to speak to you for days. It is only a week later that you remember she is in fact, a muggle born, and if you really listened to your father, she would be below you too. You beg her forgiveness, promise not to act so superior and, although things are tense, she relents. But she continues to make friends in different houses, and it weakens the bond between you.

She insists on keeping her other friends, and before you know it, you find yourself enduring hours with Gryffindorks, Ravenbores, and Hufflepoofs just to be at her side, the immovable best friend, impervious to all usurpers. You sit up all night together, revising essays and find her asleep with her head on your shoulder. Why didn't you wake me? She asks. You just looked so happy, you say, that I didn't have the heart too. This makes her smile from ear to ear and she rests her head back on your shoulder, causing you to grin as well.

When she leaves the train at the end of year to walk toward her smiling muggle parents, you bite almost clear through your lip to call out after her not to forget you. However, you don't call out and almost immediately after she vanishes through the platform with her parents, your father arrives with a blow and an earful about befriending mudbloods.

You avoid her all through second year, the harsh words of your father ringing in your ears. You hate her again, letting all the prejudices of your childhood catch up to you. She tries to speak to you a couple times, but it falls on deaf ears and your friendship crumbles.

When she gets petrified, you come to your senses. After her other friends leave, you sneak into the hospital wing to speak to her at night. I'm so sorry, you tell her. And you are. I'm so glad you're not dead, you whisper, fighting hard not to let tears fall from your eyes.

You are the first at her side after all the victims are revived. You tell her everything that you did those nights when she couldn't hear. Although she is reluctant to forgive you, she does of course, and you stay with her for the rest of the school year.

She insists that you should come to stay with her for the summer holidays but you wave her off, saying that your father would never allow it- which is completely true. When she steps off the train and away from you for the second year in a row, you again, fight need to call out to her, reassuring yourself that she won't forget you.

At the beginning of third year, she returns, looking happier than ever, giggling when she first sees you in Diagon Ally. She drags you into a deserted side lane, and hugs you tightly, wanting to know why you didn't write her, did you forget her birthday? She says she doesn't particularly care, but why didn't you so much as send a note? Did you forget her? You hold her close as you dare and tell her you were busy and it'll be true. If your father knew you were slacking off on your dark studies to write the mudblood Golden Girl, you'd have never seen her again. So you stayed busy, thinking of her with every break in focus. You make it up to her by shaking off your father, and spending every available moment by her side until she has to go home.

You cling together at school as well, becoming closer than ever. With you, she becomes slightly more arrogant, losing that innocence she first possessed. Some of her grades start dropping from overload, and when she confides in you about the time turner, you take it upon yourself to stay up every night and help her with homework.

Dating. Hermione's interested in other boys. A Gryffindor, in fact. She admits to you her crush on Weasley and before you know it, you're helping her win him over. You convince her to go on dates with other blokes, make him jealous. You meant for the other guy to be you, but it doesn't work out that way.

She storms in just after Christmas, scowling and sulking. Her first official date ended rather badly after she froze under the mistletoe. She confesses she's never kissed before, and when you tell her it's easy, her eyes boggle. You've kissed before? She wants details, listens intently as you grudgingly share the few clumsy kisses you've had with the odd pureblood brought to your house. She blinks at you, and you sit in silence awhile, before she haltingly asks you if you'll show her how. You laugh and ask her how exactly you're supposed to do that, and she looks down at her feet and blushes. You stand and leave the room without a word. You hear her go up to bed a couple hours later, slamming her door. You're instincts say to go and comfort her, but you ignore them.

The next morning you watch her during breakfast, her eyes puffy, the skin around them red and bruised, she says barely a word to anyone. You stew in guilt all day before finally hauling her into the abandoned prefects lounge and start barking instructions. "Tilt your head like this, yes that way, part your lips like that, alternate between one deep breath through your mouth and several short ones through your nose" And then you kiss her.

She is stunned at first, and then closes her eyes, and you can see the concentration on her face as you softly whisper commands past her lips. "Hermione, this isn't something you can learn from a book, just go with what you feel" and the whole time, you keep your eyes open, not to maintain distance as you wish to pretend, but so you can watch her and well as feel her kissing you, the blur of brown lashes on her cheek, the soft pink lips slipping beneath yours, the intense glow of her eyes as she opens them slightly, suddenly catching you observing every detail of her face. She draws back, a red tinge creeping into her cheeks as she asks if she was supposed to keep her eyes open too.

Your mouth still throbs from where it touched hers, and you want to cry because you realize that you can't always have everything you want. She dates recurrently from that time on; solidifying your belief that it wasn't really you she wanted to kiss.

As fourth year begins, you find she's been writing Potter and Weasley over the summer and that they have bonded while you left her alone, out of fear of the destruction of your friendship. Everything is "Ron this, Harry that" and you hate her all the more. After you refuse to go with her to cheer the boys on in their Quidditch match against Ravenclaw, she teases you. "What, don't want to watch your competition?" When you don't answer, she lashes out. "What's your problem? Are you jealous or something?" she storms away and you know that it's for the best when she begins avoiding you, because it would be all too easy to tell her.

Christmas comes and goes without the barest word spoken between you two. You hide the gift you bought her, and the absence of her smiling face cuts you deeper than seeing her with Krum at the Yule ball. You wish you could have danced with her, made her forget all those other boys.

It's May before you are with her again, a bludger flying straight toward you, a deliberate blow, the result of a direct order from Potter and you are plummeting towards the ground. You are unconscious before you hit, eyes fixed on her white, stricken face and she runs out onto the field, flourishing her wand and sprinting to save you. When you awake, it's to find her curled up at the end of your hospital bed like a ruffled kitten. You are weak from your injury, so it is excusable to slowly move down your bed with your blanked to curl your battered body around hers.

You open your eyes a few hours later to find her gone, but when you return to class you see her smile and you're ok with the silence between you. She still cares and it is only a matter of days before you find her gazing at you and blushing. "I really miss you, y'know. I'm jealous," you tell her. "Because it's easier for them to be your friends than it is for us to be." She shrugs, tells you she doesn't care. Crosses the room to sit down next to you and rest her head on your shoulder.

"I like Harry and Ron," she says simply. "But they aren't you."

And suddenly you're soaring with her few easy words, but if you didn't have the warmth of her seeping though you, you might have questioned whether that was a good thing or not.

You spend the train ride home in silence, her pressed tighter against your side on the seat than she needs to be and you are sadistically pleased that it is the loss of you that worries her because Potty and the Weasel already said they'd write. You exchanged nods, a muttered "take care" and as you move to walk away, she leans up on tiptoe, her body seemingly tiny compared to yours, reaching up to peck you on the cheek. "Don't forget me," she implores. You watch her scamper off, heart thudding painfully in your throat. You could as soon tear that treacherous organ from your chest as you could forget her.

Somehow you make it through the summer, sleeping as much as possible to make the days pass faster, the welcome absence of your father enabling you to spend your time dwelling on Hermione, sketching her face before resolutely burning each more telling rendition of her, aching to lay eyes upon the genuine article. Each day you think of writing her, but press the thought deep down into your subconscious, focusing instead on the thought of seeing her again soon.

September arrives early, as do you to stand at Kings Cross, eyes watering as you squint against the sun, determined to see her as soon as possible. Somehow you miss her creeping up to stand beside you, innocently enquiring as to whom you're searching for. You start and then jump fully as you take in her appearance. She has grown, although you still towered over her, the resulting tautness of her skin across her bones giving her a slightly gaunt look but she smiles, revealing pinched, fragile wrists and wand slim fingers as she pushes her curls out of her face and you feel content just being in her presence.

You cannot believe the change in her as you while away the school's opening months. She is quieter, if that were even possible, but so much more intense, and every now and then you find yourself on the receiving end of her searching, inquisitive gaze that threatens to undo you and more than once, you smile and ask her to please not attempt to read your thoughts and she'll giggle. You sincerely hope she cannot read your thoughts because they now reside with her every hour of the day, as do your eyes, lingering on her even when she has left the room, and somehow you are always looking at her, even if you're merely reliving her smile in class.

Christmas comes and with it, mistletoe and you spend too much time watching her blush and kiss varied boys beneath it. You find her sitting alone in the few minutes before midnight, New Years Eve and she tells you she sent her date away. You frown, though secretly pleased, and climb up to sit beside her on the low wall outside the Great Hall. She leans into you, staring up into the night and you struggle to not put your arms fully around her. "Did you know if you're with someone in the moment the year changed, it means you'll be with them all the following year?" she murmurs and you swallow, trying to clamp down the euphoria that bubbles at the idea of being with her. She tells you she sent her date away because she'd rather be alone all next year than spend it with someone she didn't love. Should I go then, you ask, beginning to rise, but a fragile hand twining its fingers in your halts you mid-motion. No, she says, stay. So you sit together, her staring up at the sky as the stars shine into a brand new year whilst you also stare upwards, but see nothing through your tears, each gripping the others hand so tight it hurts. If nothing else, you think, you'll always have this moment. This one moment where she wanted to be with you and no one else.

You dread Valentine's Day, as if the hundreds of owls with cards from witches and wizards across the country weren't bad enough, it is a holiday full of love and dates, and she feels it is her sacred obligation to date as many as possible. "It's Valentine's Day!" she tells you. "Love a little." You wince and fight the urge to tell her you love her a lot. She suggests a double date, and you laugh it off, saying you'd cramp each other's style.

You leave you're date to go seek her out and, walking though the door to the common room, your heart stops and shatters at your feet.

Hermione is kissing someone on the loveseat, kissing someone in her spot, the spot she always sits when you study together and all of this is close to soul-destroying. But what really breaks your heart is who she's kissing.

She breaks away from Lavender Brown to gaze at you in shock. Draco, she whispers hoarsely and you turn and run away. She finds you hours later, curled into an angry ball of resentment in the Quidditch stands. "I'm sorry," she says.

You sit in silence till the sun's impending rays break over the horizon, and she sits a foot away or so, waiting, just waiting for you to speak.

I thought we were friends, you say, trying to stop the blood welling in your chest from pouring past your lips. "We are!" she says, horrified when you shake your head. "I'm supposed to be your best friend and you didn't even tell me you're a lesbian," the ice in your tone gives relief, you feel less likely to ball yourself into her arms and beg her, plead with her, cry until she explains how she can love girls but not you.

She doesn't respond and you finally spare her a glance to see her, knees drawn up to her chest, sobbing silently, shoulders heaving.

Before you know it, your arms around her, and you're rocking her back and forth against your chest, murmuring every platitude you can think of, face pressed into her hair, forgiving her repeatedly if she'll only stop crying, please don't cry, don't cry. "You are my best friend," she sobs, "I didn't want to lose you, didn't want you to hate me. I didn't mean to, and I'm not a lesbian, I swear, it's just all the other guys don't mean much to me anymore." You could never hate her and you tell her so, heart soaring with the thought that she might mean all the other guys but you. She blinds tear sodden lashes at you, sniffing. "Are you sure?" You tell her of course you're sure, and that this phase is normal for everybody. "Then... then you?" she stammers. You nod, "yes, I've been with guys and girls, though I think I actually prefer girls," you say, lying through your teeth. You don't like boys, you don't like girls, you love her. Everyone else is superfluous.

She sniffs again and draws away from your embrace. "So, you don't mind then? You'll help me through this ph-phase?" She stutters and your heart grinds itself to dust beneath her feet. "No, what I minded was not being told," you say and she smiles. It's this smile that somehow sees you through your exams, through her tentative dates with girls and back to boys. That smile makes you precious to her. You are her best friend, and she may not love you but she cares about you and she doesn't care for the many different dates she has. You wish this made you feel better than it does.

At Kings Cross station you watch her walk away, no hug, no kiss and part of you walks with her. It isn't till you're in your bedroom later that night that you discover the note she tucked into your pocked. Don't Forget Me, it reads.

Sixth year begins with a bang, literally. She stalks up to you with confidence at platform 9 & ¾ smiling with glee, she knows how appealing she has become and as she draws you close to her for a hug, she purrs how good you look into your ear. You know it's true, you've grown again, as has she, but you still top her by quite a few inches, your hair and skin are flawless as usual, the puppy fat melting from your face to leave you lean and fierce looking. "Adonis," Hermione proclaims, laughing, taking in your cheekbones and you gape at her. Her eyes gleam as she stares at you, awaiting a response to what, you do not know. You look into her face for answers and the resulting almost animal grin forces the blood from your face as you again trail your eyes over her body, the new awareness she seems to have of her curves and position. Her body seems to thrum with life and the wink she throws your way confirms it.

Hermione Granger has had sex.

"Who?" You whisper hoarsely and she flushes, dragging you onto the train and into a compartment. She tells you she went to a muggle club a few times over the holidays, and met someone, just some guy that "taught her a few tricks." She smiles impishly at this before frowning at your expression. "Aren't you pleased for me?" Don't Forget Me, you think and tears burn at the back of your eyes Of course you're please, you tell her, just shocked that she moved so fast. She laughs and says, "Now all we have to do is get you laid," It is with no small amount of relish that you tell her you had sex two summers before. Her face freezes slightly and for a moment you think you see jealousy, but it is swiftly covered by mock disappointment that you beat her to it. You're not quite sure how, but you've angered her, and now you can feel her pushing the boundaries of your relationship with every passing week until one day you come back to your room to find her in bed with Blaise Zabini. For a moment, you freeze, watching her with a morbid pleasure as the notorious player pounds into her and mutters curses, one right after the other. It takes a moment for you to realize that Hermione is staring at you, a twisted smile upon her face. You nod, blushing and leave. An hour later, she finds you, and throws her arm around your waist easily. "Sorry about that," she drawls innocently. "Didn't know you'd be back so soon. But then," she winks, and obvious malice creeps into her voice. "I guess it's nothing you haven't seen before right?" You smile tightly and assent, hating her again for the first time in so long.

You date frequently, as you always have, but now you go public, trying to do to her, what she did to you. She seems oblivious until she finds you in your room fooling around with Pansy Parkinson. You know she hates the other Slytherin girls and you can't help but be grateful for how vocal Parkinson is. You slide your hands up her skirt, all the while imagining the girl watching you is the girl in bed with you. You hear Hermione catch her breath enough to lift your gaze and meet hers with your 'shocked' expression. You blink in false surprise and Parkinson squeaks as your motion stills. Hermione flushes, mutters a quick "Sorry" then flees. You smile wickedly, and begin to undress Parkinson, still pretending she's someone else.

Christmas comes, and you congratulate yourself on Hermione's present. A complex book of charms, its major redeeming feature being a spell to enchant the canopy above her bed to look like a window into the night sky. She throws herself at you upon reading it, arms locked tightly about your neck, beyond happy that you remember how much she hates the dungeons, and you laugh as she performs the same spell above your bed. "There," she says a bit breathlessly. "Now we can sleep beneath the moonlight together." You would give anything to know her thoughts at that moment.

There are odd moments between you both in the following months, and she spends New Years by your side. You catch her watching you when she thinks you don't see and, in your immense stupidity, you allow this to get your hopes up. Until you remember that Valentine's Day is almost upon you, and you dread her many suitors, asking her to be their Valentine. You decide that if you're going to suffer through this holiday, then you'd best suffer a great deal. You send her a Valentine's Day card, unsigned, but she'd have to be an idiot to not know it's from you.

You get back from your Valentines date and cautiously approach your dorm, listening intently for sounds of any unwanted visitors. When none are apparent, you enter, finding Hermione sprawled out on your bed. She sits up hastily, glowering at you, still dressed from her dates, and this fact brings you comfort. Her hair is twice as bushy as normal, and as she attempts a ferocious glare, it strikes you how very like a kitten she appears. You grin, adding to his scowl as you green her as "Kitten," chucking at her angry face until she holds up the card you sent her. "Forget me not, Hermione Granger," she says shrilly, facing the inside of the card at you, exposing your elegant scrawl. "You're the only one who matters."

She looks angry and confused. Waving the card at you as if it were a plot to kill her. "What is this?" she cries and you sigh, sitting heavily on your bed. "A joke," you tell her and she sneers, lip curling and your heart chills at her disdainful look. "You look like me," you laugh nervously. "A joke?" she asks, completely disregarding your previous comment. "You think it's funny to send me fake Valentines do you? You think it's funny I have all these people pretending to love me?" she spits at the word pretending and you blanch at her words. "It isn't fake," you say. "It's no declaration of love, but it's not fake. I don't think it's funny, I would never pretend," you tell her firmly before seizing her wrist and dragging her to you for a fierce, crushing hug. "I would never pretend to love you if I didn't," you reiterate and she slumps against you. "I fucking hate Valentine's Day," she whispers, resting her forehead against yours.

You sit together like that for a while, eyes closed, just resting against each other, her voice a surprise in the quiet. "I'm the only one who matters?"

You blush faintly before simply saying yes. "Why?" she murmurs, pulling back to look at you. You smile at how deliciously vulnerable she allows herself to be with you. "Because," you tell her and she scowls, playfully pushing at your shoulders, as she straddles you. "Because by itself is not an answer. Because what?" she gives you a stern look, completely unaware of how her presence in your lap might affect you and it's this easy trust that prevents and adverse reaction from you. "Because you're my bestest, best friend in the whole wide world," You say. "Bestest?" she giggles, before moving her face closer to yours, smiling softly.

"You are the best friend I've ever had or will ever have," she whispers, settling herself fully on your lap and you let your arms loosely drape around her, barley clasped at her waist. Her eyes flicker downwards and she blushes slightly, blinking her semi-unfocused gaze back to yours. The hands that rested lightly on your shoulders slide unhurriedly across the smooth material of your robes, one hand gently resting over you collar bone, the other sliding backwards and sideways, fingers cupping themselves lightly about the curl of your nape. She murmurs something so softly you don't hear it; you think it may be your name but you attention shifts to where she tilts her head, trailing the tip of her nose down the aristocratic slope of yours before drawing back slightly, eyes locked on your own shuttered sliver gaze.

You vaguely realize that her face is moving slowly closer to yours, slanted somewhat to the left, but you are mesmerized, trapped by what you see gleaming in the depths of her chocolate brown eyes. You see the interest and it pleases you, you see the intent and it makes your stomach clench with anticipation. But what you lose yourself in, what holds you steady before her is the fear. She wants, she longs but she is afraid and you're not sure what it is that makes your heart lash out wildly at your ribcage, the notion that she's afraid of whatever may occur or the smooth warm press of her mouth against yours.

You keep your mouth parted ever so slightly, not enough to invite her taste but enough to feel her heat seep through to you. She keeps her eyes open this time, locked on yours, the kiss hesitant, even though her fingers tighten to the point of pail upon your neck. It makes you blush to hear the soft slick sounds your mouth makes beneath hers, each move she makes creating a gentle suction between your lips, the sound moist and lingering as you separate. It takes you a fraction of a second to move your head forward, reclaiming her lips before they had fully retreated and her quick intake of breath is worth the pang in your chest. You part your lips expectantly and within moments she is tasting you, filling you and the wet hot breaths between you are no longer embarrassing but a mantra, repeated over and over with greater feeling until you feel her tipping you backwards onto the bed. Both your eyes have been fixed upon the others as your breaths quicken and are lost between you. You've seen the dilation, felt the now piercing gaze upon your face as she devours you and you bite softly at her lower lip, gasping as the black swallows the brown. She takes advantage of your sudden distraction with a deep plunge of her tongue, superseding yours to fully plunder your mouth and you are too slow to bite back the whimper of need that escapes you. The hand resting on your collarbone moves downward, palm spread, fingers splayed, curving inwards.

It is survival instinct, you think, that then has you snarling, reversing your positions so she now lays beneath you, your tongue scraping over her teeth, battling hers on a low roar of need. Her hand comes up to run her fingers through your hair and you ruthlessly savage her mouth, pressing hard enough to know she'll have swollen slips for hours; lips that will show the world you kissed her. The mere thought of it is enough to have your hips bucking forward into hers, your free hand crushing down onto her shoulders to hold her in place as she mewls and writhes against you, her back arching up into you, her hips fighting to get closer to yours.

The door creaks open, a low groaning sound that mirrors your anguish and you suddenly straighten up, spin, meaning to simply move away but somehow your legs carry you further and further until you are out the door, never once looking to see who entered the room or to see the loss written across your best friend's face.

She finds you, as she always does, sitting atop the roof of the Astronomy Tower, staring into the night. She slumps down beside you, turning her head to rest it against your shoulder. She trembles and you sigh, moving closer so she is now pressed along your side, and she swiftly moves beneath your arm so you are forced to hold her against you as she turns her face into your throat. "Please," she whispers, and you feel both her damp lips and eyelashes move against you. "Please don't fight this." You grimace and tell her "I can't do this, I won't do this, you mean too much to me, you're my friend."

There is a pause and she murmurs how she knows you had sex with Astoria Greengrass. "Astoria's your friend, how is it different?" You shrug gently, not displacing her from her hiding place within your arms. "That was Astoria," you point out and you can feel her bristle with indignation, like a cat again. "So what? So Greengrass is special?" She pulls her face away to glare at you and you sigh. "No," you say softly. "That was just Astoria. You are you. Not just Hermione, but Hermione," you say her name, putting as much emotion into it as you can. "I won't fuck us up that way. I need you too much."

She squints at you, doubtful, and you surprise yourself by closing your arms around her and burying your face in her neck. "You're the only one who matters," you mumble against her skin and feel her sigh.

Her arms tighten about you and you feel her lips on your hair. She murmurs "Friends?" and you shake with longing. You can't risk losing her because she finally decided she wants you. You're not going to be one of those boys you see around the school, heart on their sleeves, tears in their eyes as she walks past. If friendship is the only way you can keep her with you always, then friendship is all you'll take from her. "Always," you whisper.

Snape finds you both curled into each other, asleep at dawn atop the Astronomy Tower, and gives you both detentions for a month. You wish you could tell him just how severe a punishment you have already inflicted upon yourself.

February's reluctant drizzle soon makes way for the blossoming warmth of spring and somewhere between this, buds a new relationship between you and Hermione. Her dating habits decrease alarmingly and rumors spread throughout the school. Hermione's in love, Hermione's pregnant, Hermione's become celibate. Whichever it is, you don't care because suddenly you have your best friend back and almost nothing comes between you. You continue to date; knowing that reports of otherwise will reach your father and bring more trouble than it's worth. It also has the added benefit of making Hermione seem jealous, but again this is barely worth it for the infrequent fights between you, now that you only date purebloods. She thinks you're repressing yourself, intending to become just another breeder for the Malfoy line, your own heart and desires be damned. You find yourself unable to point out that touching anyone but her is now abhorrent to you.

Spring begins its slow descent into summer, the days warming gradually and you often do your homework outside, continuously distracted by the sight of Hermione's long limbs stretched out into the thick green grass you laze upon.

One thick, syrupy afternoon under the shade of a large oak tree, overlooking the lake, you tell her. Not with your voice, but with your hands as she lies, sprawled before you, on her stomach, eyes closed, face in the grass where she rests after three hours of solid studying. You'd been taking about meeting up for her 'Sweet Sixteenth' birthday, making plans for you to sneak out, teasing her about the one month gap between you, the brief time where you'll be of age and she won't. She reaches out to cuff you lightly about the head, giggling at your exaggerated wince. You lean forward to smack her back but find yourself twirling your fingers up and down her collarbone, connecting the smooth pebbles of her spine with quick steps of your fingertips, smoothing the knots away with your palms. She moans and you chuckle softly, twisting your fingers back and forth, signing your name with an elaborate flourish that sends shivers through her, shivers you can actually watch rolling between her shoulder blades. You continue, the school motto, her name, your full name, her full name, Hermione and Draco, Draco and Hermione, and then finally as she seems to doze off contentedly beneath your fingers, you quickly scrawl I Love You, each word written on top of the other as if you could imbed them into her flesh.

Her voice cracks at you like a whip through the heat and you start, hand snatched back as though burnt. "What was that last one?" she asks innocently. You somehow feel she knows, but you tell her "Friends" all the same. She nods, mouth twisting in an odd grimace, both regretful and angry. She sits up suddenly, one knee bent, her arm resting on her knee, the other arm shooting out to drag you forwards by your tie, up against her body, "And if it's not enough?" she asks softly before smashing her lips onto yours.

Before you know it, you are flat on your stomach, legs tangled with hers as you bite at each other's mouths, moaning and sighing as you reacquaint yourselves with each other's taste. Her hand is fisted so tightly in your hair, you know she'll have a handful still when she pulls away, but you won't be angry, because you did just rip her necklace off in your haste to get closer to her, to have better access to that firm thrusting tongue and those hot, pliant, demanding lips. Her kisses are intoxicating and each time you shift the angle of the kiss you feel the ground lurch sideways, slipping off its axis. Her legs part and slide around your waist to allow your roughly grinding pelvis better freedom of movement, the sensation of her legs rubbing through your trousers against your already aching length is more than you can bear. You feel a hand snaking down between your writing bodies to tug at your zipper and you spear a hand back through her hair, tilting her head back to better claim her mouth. In that second, your eyes meet, and you see longing in her beautiful brown depths. Suddenly, you remember how truly how special she is and how you cannot endanger her or your friendship for a quick hot fuck.

You sit up and she claws at you, mumbling "No," in a desperate tone, recognizing the same closed look you gave her last time you digressed. "I can't," you tell her, repeating your same words from that night, her eyes blurry yet still fixed on you. "I won't ruin our friendship, it means too much." You stand and collect your books, ignoring the tears pooling in her eyes. Her voice shakes with emotion, scraping past her clenched teeth as she sits at your feet, repeating her words from before. "And if it isn't enough?"

You look at her sadly, having handed her back her repaired necklace. "It has to be," you tell her and then walk away.

That night you lay in bed, lit by the soft shine of the night sky charm upon your canopy, glowing richly now with the full moon it echoed outside. Tears fall slowly down your cheeks and you masochistically enjoy the sensation of them both burning and quenching your eyes.

Then you hear the door creak open and a muffled whisper comes from across the room. "Draco?" she calls, her voice suspiciously thick with tears. You press your face into the pillow.

"Draco?" Closer now, just outside the curtains surrounding your bed and you bite back a cry at her wavering tone. You screw your eyes shut tightly.

You hear your curtains part and the bed dips lightly beneath her weight, her breathing so loud in the quiet, her shadow cast over you in the light of your faux moon. She leans across you, mouth whispering by your ear, words ringing with the same desperation that claws your chest every time you look at her.

"I know this is supposed to be enough for us Draco, and I don't want to ruin what we have I just… I…" she swallows and you feel the nervous action jarring through your entire body, "Could you just love me for tonight?"

Could you just love her for tonight? The correct answer would be no, simply because you don't know how to love her for any shorter than forever, but you roll over to meet her tear damp eyes with your own equally moist but shuttered gaze. She babbles on, unable to meet your stare in the oddly bright light of the moon. "I mean, I just, couldn't you just love me now, for tonight, because it's just killing me and you could pretend it never happened tomorrow if you wanted I just, I wish, I wish you would just love me for tonight"

"Why?" It's a whisper and yet it deafens you both and she hesitates, fear glistening in the back of her eyes and dully you reflect what a good Gryffindor she would have made.

"Because… because I love you," she murmurs, voice trembling and a single tear escapes her wide eyes, rolling down over her pale cheeks as she awaits your reply.

Sitting up slowly, you repeat her words back to her. "You love me?" Your voice would shame a legion of your ancestors, weak with emotion, thick with fear, and somehow sparkling with hope.

She nods and an odd horse cry escapes your throat and there's a fraction of a second of silence before you launch yourself at her, kissing her with every suppressed ounce of longing felt in six long years. You wrap your arms around her waist, drinking her though the kiss, feeling the sheer bliss of her words pervading you and you are dimly aware of her laying you down against the mattress, both of your feet kicking the sheets away as she lies on top of you. You part your thighs, murmuring gently at the feel of her smooth legs tangling between your own, her hips falling between yours as she lifts your head to look dazedly into your eyes. Her own eyes widen as you reach your hands up her shirt, running them along the curves of her breasts. She whispers your name in wonderment and you love her all the more for not expecting this from you. Her hand grips your zipper and pulls off your clothes, hissing as your erection springs free, brushing her legs up against it. You smile at her, letting every ounce of joy shine through. "Tell me you love me," you demand throatily, knowing she'll comply. She does, voice catching on the words as she drags her lips and the short, sweet syllables across your smiling mouth. "No," you tell her, wrapping her legs around yours, "Tell me when I'm inside you."

You feel her become wet at your words, melting into you. You slide a hand beneath her to lift her hips higher, a better angle, wide palm spread across your back, thumb just resting over the last vertebrae. You slide into her slowly, and watch her flush as she pulls you closer. "Please Draco, please," she whimpers, her breath catching. You slide your other hand around her back, curving her to you, muffling her small cry of longing with your kiss, your body slipping deeper into hers as her weight rests against you. Your body throbs with a heady mixture of pain and promise, her long legs squeezing you, wanting you to move even closer. "Now," you manage between labored breaths, "Now tell me," You feel a quiver run through her, nerves, apprehension, pleasure? You don't know, but you feel your heartbeat slowing in an effort not to drown out her words.

She looks down into your face, expression that of deadly seriousness as she brushes a blonde strand from your eyes. "I Love You," she says it simply, and to your surprise, you tremble. Your entire body is wracked with shudders and there's a disturbing wetness seeping from your eyes. "Oh Hermione, I love you so much," you gasp and drag her head down to muffle your ecstatic sobs with her lips. You separate for air a few moments later and the smile in her eyes make you blush at your stupidity in not telling her sooner. You lay there together for awhile, you stroke her hair, still inside her as she tells you how long she's loved you, (Couldn't you tell when she asked you to kiss her in third year?) kissing you between words, waiting for your body to relax. You laugh softly in delight each time she brushes a kiss over your skin, you can't help it, you feel as though your heart might break with the overwhelming wonder of being loved by her.

Closing your eyes to kiss her deeply, smoothing your tongue across her palate, you become acutely aware of how every inch of her is pressed to you. You pull out slightly and she whimpers again, before thrusting back in deeper than you had been before.

You blush later to remember the words that spilled from your lips, but hers were even more embarrassing. You underneath her, thrusting into her, has her spouting sonnets of filth and love, demanding your cock "harder, deeper, faster," because oh God, "I love you so much I'll die without you, oh yes, just there, fuck me harder, oh Draco, Draco yes," as you thrust louder, harsher, sweat pouring over your bodies as you slam upward into her again and again, until you both come, heads thrown back, her body arched into yours, back tearing and shoulders knotting, your head filled with every kiss, while you vaguely worry that you and Hermione might both die from it as she collapses on top of you, clinging to you desperately.

You roll over and she curls beside you, as you cradle her close. "I love you," she mumbles conversationally into the smooth skin above your pulse point, and you feel her eyelashes fluttering wildly against exhaustion, waiting for reciprocation before falling into rest. You tighten your arms around her waist and glide one hand through her sweat dampened curls. "I love you," you whisper, smiling as you feel the relief in her, the gentle increase in weight as she sleeps. You lay there, fighting off sleep for hours, just so you can imbed the sensation of being with her upon your very being. She loves me, you think as your eyes flicker shut, she loves me, and you cradle her closer, tears of joy slipping past your lids as you slumber.

When you open your eyes, the moon has gone, its gentle light obliterated by the morning sun now pouring in through your open curtains. Open curtains. You fly into full wakefulness to note Blaise and Goyle standing over you, eyes wide as they take in the heavily rumpled bedclothes, the sweet stench of sex and the long, graceful thigh revealed where the covers have slipped back, betraying the nudity of the girl curled around you. Hermione, Hermione sleeping naked in your bed, Hermione pressed tightly up against you, Hermione… Hermione loves you.

"Umm," you say, blushing madly as you notice your other dorm mates looking with great interest at your bed partner. I can explain this, you think quickly, but Hermione stirs, murmuring against your chest, pressing small kisses there in her sleep.

"S'ok boss," Goyle mumbles, blushing, "we kind of know already."

Hermione sighs against your skin, eyes fluttering open then closed once more, shifting up along your body to seize your mouth in a brief kiss. "Morning," she mumbles drowsily. "Love you."

"Love you back," you murmur, eyes still wide as you consider the best way to make her aware of your audience. Before you can fully formulate a play, Blaise does it for you.

"Hey Hermione!" he yells mockingly, "You might want to learn how to use a silencing charm!"

She stiffens in your embrace before sitting bolt upright, pulling the bed sheets around her body. "What?" she says sharply at Blaise, glaring at him, daring to spoil the moment. Suddenly you're struck by Blaise's comment. You blush furiously. You really should have thought of a silencing charm.

Blaise grins devilishly, seeing the color creep into your face. "That's right!" he drawls maliciously, eyes bright with mischief. "We heard it all!"

He seizes his pillow, stretching out atop it, grinding his pelvis down into it as he throws back his head, mimicking Hermione's voice with a frightening precision. "Oh fuck, oh gods yes Draco, so fucking hard, love you so much, yeah baby squeeze me, yeah like that oh fuck I love having your cock inside me, feels so good, so hot... oh... oh... oh yeah, yeah, yeah Draco, I love you so much don't stop, fuck me, god yeah, fuck me harder baby, love you, love you... oh god Draco YEAH!"

Hermione goes pink, scarlet, then deep violet in a manner of seconds before diving beneath the covers and hiding her face against your chest. "Please tell me I don't sound like that," When Zabini roars with laughter, she pulls back out again to give him a full death glare. It is with great difficulty you hold back a sappy grin as Goyle pats Hermione's shoulder. "Don't worry Granger, I'm only a bed away and all I heard was Blaise jerking off over you two," he flashes a smirk at Blaise who abruptly stops laughing and scowls back.

Hermione turns to you to kiss you deeply; arms curving about you to trace the words I love you on top of each other on your back. You smile guiltily before letting your lips sink into hers. "I really do love you," she says.

And there the dream stops.

For every stolen kiss there is a duplicitous deranged professor, bent on resurrecting his master, leaving Hermione defending the savior.

For every moment where she presses up against you in sheer need of your presence, there is a sixteen year old boy with the heart of a madman to set a murderous serpent on her and her real friends.

You know that the price of her laughter would be high; you'd have prevented her from going on all of Potter's adventures, kept her away from her true family and never let her find herself.

These many separate fates, twisted into each other yet negating the existence of others as they weave their way, jagged thorns of pain, of reality, into the lying soft and splendid world of your dreams to destroy the only thing that keeps you going.

Hermione.

Somewhere in your mind, you match an ending to your beautiful shining tale and while it does not match the events you scribed across reality, it is certainly closer to the truth than you'd prefer. There is one ending; the only ending that brings you mild satisfaction with your pain and grief. Hermione looks at you, tears of horror and betrayal running over her ashen cheeks, her eyes fixed upon your bared left forearm. Her mouth works but she is always too hurt by your faithlessness to speak, or maybe you simply cannot bear to imagine the words she would say to you. Even in this dream, you cannot allow yourself to justify the gross disfigurement that mars your skin in both your mind and reality; you cannot explain it to her. You cannot tell her of your childish dreams, so it was with a certain gladness you except the curse she casts at you, rich and intense and reflected vividly in her eyes. You always knew you could sink into her eyes and die there. So you do.

But that is only in your mind. If you could kill your heart, your love, as easily as you can imagine your own demise then surely you'd survive. You have survived so far, witnessed horrors, borne the terrors and burdens no child should bear until you grew into the young man you are now, surprised to hear your heart still beating whenever she walks by.

Sometimes you wonder if you've done enough, borne more than your load, taken more than you could stand and surely, surely that must merit a reward? Maybe now you could start afresh, say you're sorry, take her hand and hold on tight, hoping she won't pull away, beg her for the merest smile or kind word to you, maybe your dreams aren't that far wrong, maybe she would see you, just you, just once and really see you and know. Maybe you could stop surviving and live to just be near her.

Then your arm burns and you feel the darkness writhing in the back of your mind, feel the bite and stench of hatred, so wholly unconnected with you, but so utterly focused on her. Get close to her, your father once told you. Be her friend, her lover, her confidant then one day… and he closes his fist with a snap, smiling grimly. And so you are her nemesis, you mock her, hurt her, hate her in the public eye and spin your web of dreams within your skull to cradle as you fall, weeping into dreams each night where a voice hisses and laughs at your love, eyes fixed on you always unwavering.

They want you close to her, close enough to break her. You take that last step closer now and you can actually feel her chest against yours, the unrelenting Gryffindor standing her ground, you dip your head and answer her as best you can, answer her with the only truth you can give her.

"You'd be dead already," you spit, and it is neither clever nor cutting but it is the only answer you have. She backs away, disappointment flashing in her eyes at your immensely predictable response and it delights you to feel the fizzing pain of frustrated fury in your arm, burning at the back of your skull, you would almost laugh to feel the Dark Lord's displeasure at Hermione's retreat, taking him further away from Potter also- only the further she walks away from you, the greater she tears the fragile thread that holds you upright, keeps you breathing.

With each step she takes, you feel the Hermione who loved you slip further into distortion and every attempt to resurrect her is wrong when faced with the truth of her disregard. You recall her face as she smiles at you through the sunlight, noting dully that you have her nose all wrong and suddenly the sun is gone and there has never shone a moon or a star above your bed and Hermione never loved you or simply wished to be your friend.

_Don't Forget Me._

So you stand there, watching her walk away from you, back to Weasley and Potter, your face twisted in anguish, swift, silent tears burning your face and know that if you called out to her, she'd turn to face you and see you there with your heart in your eyes- bleeding, broken, and dying for her.

But you don't, and she doesn't, and in that moment, you're the best friend she's ever had.

* * *

><p>Hope you guys liked my version of Dramione! Just a couple notes worth mentioning!<p>

Firstly, on referring to Hermione's bisexuality as a "phase." It's not intentionally biphobic, I just think that's how Draco would see it. He's not exactly raised to be the most open-minded, and would probably see his own experimenting as just exploring all possible avenues.

Secondly, I completely acknowledge that Hermione is very OOC at points. Keep in mind that this is Draco's version of her, and even though he's in love with her, he doesn't know much about how she really acts around her friends.

Anyways, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Reviews are appreciated.


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